Éowyn, Book 1: The CageChapter 2: Fire free porn video

[ Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place before the arrival of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. Reference is made to Boromir’s passage through Rohan on his way to Rivendell.]

21 February 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

“Please stop. We should not. I cannot...”

“Peace, my beautiful Lady. We have this time and no other. Let us not waste it in idle protest.”

His lips drove into hers, strong hands gripping the muscular firmness of her rear through the thin film of her nightdress. He pulled, he pressed, and she again felt the impossible hardness of his staff against her churning stomach. The heat of it branded her ... though she knew it was mostly her imagination, given the many layers of clothing he still wore ... and her blood raced and rose in sympathetic temperature, coalescing in her overheated loins.

She moaned as his tongue continued its battle with hers, and her hand gripped his tousled hair. His own hands squeezed harder, lifting her and spreading her legs wider as he did. She did not, as he obviously desired, wrap them about his waist, but his shaft was firmly nestled against the yearning throb of her sex. His hands began to roam, purposefully stimulating her most sensitive places. Soon she would be powerless to do other than yield unless she summoned the last of her waning resistance.

His groan matched, then overpowered hers.

Without warning he released her to the ground, and she trembled with the effort required to remain standing. His hands traced her form, moving swiftly upward — the backs of his fingers brushing the tips of her breasts like passing lightning — and reaching for the clasp of his cloak. His jacket was already unbuttoned by the time the cloak pooled at his feet, his vest open before the jacket joined the cloak, his shirt violently tossed aside.

Éowyn stood, quivering and biting her lip. I should stop this. Oh, I want nothing so much as to be taken by him, firmly and perhaps even roughly, and then to return his aggression long into the morning. I want ... I want to see his cock. To touch it. To fall to my knees and...

No. No, I can’t. Though the aching need deep inside cries out in protest, though I can’t tear my eyes from the furious work of his fingers as they’re about to reveal the object of my lust, I have to regain control. Of the situation. Of him. Of myself.

“Boromir,” she said, resting her hands against his formidably muscled chest. That was a bad idea. “We have to stop. I can’t. I admit that I desire you, and I’m moved by the evidence of your need for me, but this is not the right moment. Later, perhaps...”

“Later? Later! Lady Éowyn, I came straight from the horror of battle with the evil King of the Nazgûl, and will leave this very morn to seek legends in the wilderness. There may never be a ‘later.’ A warrior knows this. We have...”

She interrupted him, wincing at the casual slight. The same as ever. “I understand what a ‘warrior’ knows, Captain.” She deliberately employed his military, rather than his noble, designation.

His face softened. “I accept your remonstrance. I feel your warrior’s spirit, whether you are allowed battle or not. Though I suspect you are not, and therein lies the purpose of your rebuke.” She looked down, still annoyed. “But Lady Éowyn, we...” He placed a gentle hand on her cheek, lifting her face to his. “We who are warriors know that every moment may be our last, and so we must take that which is offered, when it is offered, lest there be no morrow. I am offering myself to you. And I do not believe I am mistaken that you would fain offer yourself to me.”

Her indecision manifested itself in contrasts: the impulsive removal of her hands from his chest, but also the simultaneous flow of lubrication from her sex. Curse my thrice-damned obviousness, she bemoaned, as moistness appeared and spread right where his cock had pressed her nightshirt against her wet center. But her will retained the mastery. Barely.

“You see only the evidence of my body, Lord Boromir,” she replied, now employing a more flattering, albeit incorrect, honorific, “and while I don’t deny that it may already have surrendered itself to you, I’m more than just my body.”

His eyes glinted with unexpected ferocity. Thus far he’d been passionate, even insistent, but she worried that if she didn’t handle this correctly she might experience his frustration, or even his anger. She knew him to be noble, but she also knew what uncontrollable lust could do to one’s restraint.

“You are more than just a body, indeed. Though that body...” He moved his hand down her neck to rest on the sideswell of her breast; she neither stopped him nor removed his hand. “ ... is one of surpassing appeal, about which minstrels might compose lusty paeans yet still fail to capture in its perfection. But yours is not the only will here and now.” His thumb began circling her nipple, sending shocks of pleasure to her sex and warnings of danger racing through her head. “Know that I have a will, too. A warrior’s will to take what I desire.”

She looked up at him in surprise. Those words... They stirred something familiar within her, as if she’d heard them before. She felt herself falling under his spell, losing her ability to resist. And there was a look in his eyes that was ... different. Boromir as she’d known him, yet not. Her worry deepened. But still she did not stop him. Not yet.

It seemed, for a moment, that she might not have to. He suddenly pulled away, still partially clothed, and his eyes bore through hers. But then she felt the air turn chillier and looked down in shock. Where did my nightshift go? I didn’t remove it, nor did he. “Magnificent,” he proclaimed, appraising her body with greedy eyes while she fidgeted, wanting to cover her nakedness yet secretly eager to have him study it in just this fashion. She felt sluggish in mind and limb, even though every point of pleasure was burning with an unquenchable fire. Wetness coursed down her thighs. She yearned to see his cock, which still strained against the front of his breeches, but even more she yearned for him to touch her. Somewhere. Anywhere.

But he didn’t. He continued to stand where he was, looking at her. Up and down. Down and up. Stopping to admire her features, then continuing on. She had the impression he was speaking to her, but her ears heard nothing, nor did his lips move. Her shivering became an uncontrollable seizure of pleasure. She moaned, and the pitch and volume of that moan elevated until it became a scream. Thrusting her hips forward against the empty air, she came. Hard. She pumped her hips like she was taking his cock deep inside her soaked channel, but he wasn’t touching her in any fashion whatsoever. Her orgasm rolled away and returned, plundering her consciousness, until — too weak to stand — she collapsed forward into Boromir’s waiting arms.

And missed. And continued to fall...

... and awoke drenched in sweat, tightly wrapped in sheets that had long since adhered to and twisted around her. She was on the floor, one hand between her legs and several fingers deeply embedded in her sex. In her essentially mummified state she was unable to remove them, and the attempt to do so began an enticing wiggling that reignited her ardor. This is no time for an encore, she scolded herself, embarrassed by her condition even though she was alone.

My jaw hurts. It must have struck the floor in my fall. It doesn’t feel all that severe, but I should make sure it didn’t bruise. With a frustrated grunt, she rolled away from the bed to which the sheets clung until she was freed. Then she extracted her fingers from her slippery pussy, which ached like it had been the object of long attention. Just how long was I touching herself during that dream? Judging by the quantity and consistency of the liquid that clung to her fingers she’d been self-pleasuring a long time.

What’s wrong with me?

She stood, sore in places unlike those with which she was familiar from the training floor. If I ever have sex, is this what I’m going to feel like in the aftermath?

Surveying herself for additional damage, she found none on her person. The sheets were another story: sodden, stretched, and — where she’d rolled across the floor — stained with dust. I’ll have to be nimble in my explanations to the washing-woman, lest there be unwanted rumors by the afternoon.

She walked to the shutter, loosely closed with a makeshift wrap of cord in place of the latch she’d shattered, undid the tie, and peered outside. Dawn was approaching. I’m unlikely to be able to return to worthwhile sleep, and I’m not going to use those sheets again. I might as well start my day. Shrugging, she took a robe from a nearby hook and made her way towards her bath.

Once again drenched in sweat, though for a far more acceptable reason than before, Éowyn wiped a hand on her jerkin. Her training session had been unusually violent; so much so that the Weaponmaster yielded before their usual time, noting that she was unlikely to learn anything while venting fury at her unseen and unnamed foe, and cautioning that she was in danger of hurting one or both of them. To this she had no answer, but after he left she returned to her practice, mimicking stabbing, whirling motions with a spear. In an attempt to execute a flashy reversal that might impale an unexpected enemy to her rear she nicked her forearm with the bladed tip. The bleeding stopped fairly quickly, and no wrap would be required, but the brief sight of blood temporarily quelled the unfocused fury that consumed her.

The Weaponmaster was right: my mind is elsewhere. Shaking the aftereffects of her unexpected sexual dream was proving more difficult than she’d imagined. Though she’d fantasized about Boromir often enough since his brief visit to Rohan, this time the presence in her dream wasn’t really Borormir. Suppressing a shudder, she tried to evade her guess at who’d gradually taken his place, for it was a realization that made her feel sick.

She crouched down in disgust, holding her head between her hands. Gríma — Wormtongue — had done something to her yesterday. Something lasting, even beyond what she’d felt while it was happening. It was outside her understanding, and she’d gained no answers since.

In the aftermath of his intrusion she’d struggled her way through lunch — sitting as far away from him as possible, though the King appeared to take no notice — and then spent the balance of the afternoon childishly spreading whispers, making sure his new name reached every receptive year. To her delight it stuck like a pony to its dam. Confidants reported his perceptible and growing annoyance, even though no one had yet dared to speak the name to his face. But it was a petty, hollow revenge, and she knew it.

She needed information. She needed to know how someone so contemptible could know every single answer despite never having heard her questions. She needed to know why she’d wantonly shed her carefully nurtured inhibitions in the presence of someone she loathed. She needed to know how he could drive her to orgasm with his voice alone. Most of all, she needed to understand the source of his power. It was achieved through words, certainly, but how? Was it devilry, as a few suspected? Or was it something else?

One way or another she would know. She had to. For the sake of the King, for her people, and for herself.

Éowyn drew a steel pin from her hair, releasing a few long strands that spilled about her shoulders. She was not, even on formal occasions, fond of devices and frippery in her hair; when necessary, braids of various designs sufficed for all but the most exceptional circumstances. As a result she hoped that few saw her employing them now when there seemed little reason to be doing so. Some indeed gave her an odd look as they passed in the hall, but she pretended to ignore them ... for though she desired stealth in her current endeavor, “Lady Éowyn is wearing hair accessories!” was a rumor her dignity could withstand.

Piercing the heavy lock with the pin’s sharp tip, she edged it forward and back, levering and twisting at intervals. This was an unlikely skill for a King’s niece to possess, it was true, but a semi-drunken evening with a somewhat disreputable trader had supplied it. It occurred to her, as she worked, that the exchange had been entirely chaste. Did he expect something in return? Recalling the look in his eyes as she thanked him and slipped away, she supposed that he did after all. She wondered if he thought of her later that night as he sought relief, and realized that the idea excited her.

With a sharp click the lock released, and she removed it and placed it on the bed. She looked around, listening carefully, but she remained alone.

Sneaking into Wormtongue’s quarters had been no easy task. They were isolated enough that the hallway wasn’t heavily trafficked, but there were others in the vicinity, and loitering until the entrance became entirely unmarked was, in itself, potentially suspicious. She passed by a dozen times before she found sufficient privacy to pick that lock and slip inside. Her peril only increased once past the threshold, for she quickly discovered that there were no other egresses, not even a window; it was the door or nothing. The lack of any window at all was a strangeness at which she wondered, for Meduseld’s somewhat depressing warren of living quarters, set behind and below the Golden Hall, was dark and dreary even in the best of circumstances, and to her knowledge no other resident willingly chose interior rooms for their apartment. Well, I’m not here to assess his personality, as I already know it’s utterly repellent. I’m here to expose his secrets.

A quick search through drawer, cabinet, and closet revealed nothing suspicious, and of hidden chambers in the walls, floor, or ceiling she could find no sign. Which left only the sturdy chest and its heavy lock.

Carefully, she opened the lid, fearing some sort of trap. Inside were orderly piles of objects both familiar and strange. She gently rummaged through them, fearing undue noise, but found nothing more incriminating than strange books of lore, odd-looking weapons, and moldering pieces of fabric that apparently held sentimental value. Sentiment! Who would have guessed? Her frustration grew alongside her fear of discovery, for she couldn’t stay much longer, but there was nothing that...

In the back corner of the chest, near the bottom, her fingers touched a cold metal cylinder snugly nestled behind a heavy iron box. Curious, she brought it into the light for closer study. If there was more to it than met the eye, it wasn’t immediately obvious, and cautious prodding and twisting brought her no more insight.

But it didn’t actually matter, for she had her answer. The evidence with which to save herself ... and the King, and Rohan ... was there in plain sight. For set into the cylinder’s opaque black curvature was a shining ivory inlay, shimmering and shifting in the light.

A hand. A white hand.

She put the cylinder back where she’d found it, closed the chest, and replaced the lock. Slipping the pin into her sleeve rather than taking the time to rearrange her hair, she undertook the riskiest part of her venture and pressed her ear to the door. There was no sound from the hall. Pulling it open just the barest crack, she peered out. No one! Hastily, she slipped out and away, letting the thick door close behind her with an echoing thunk that seemed deafening to her retreating ears. But she was already far down the hall, eagerly anticipating her triumph.

From the shadows of a half-obscured alcove, Gríma stepped forward and frowned at the chest. Even had I not entered via my hidden door, even had I not heard the noise of someone hurriedly departing my quarters, I’d still know of the intrusion and its author, for I can smell her telltale scent. And she was somewhat careless, leaving the wrinkled depression the lock left on my bedding unsmoothed, and — even more damning — replacing the lock backwards. He was a man of certain obsessions, and one was the careful alignment of things that could, if tampered with, warn him of an impending threat.

Well, she’ll understand the power of threats soon enough.

The door slammed closed with a heavy thud, displacing the air roiling in her furious wake. Over her angry footsteps she heard no sound. In her thundercloud mood she felt nothing. She flung herself against the bed, falling to her knees and sobbing into the coverlet. Cornered. Trapped.

She’d waited until Théoden was alone, and though he seemed puzzled at her eagerness for a private conversation, he didn’t peremptorily dismiss her, as he sometimes did. She told him of her discovery of the cylinder, and of the ominous white hand, hoping for an immediate explosion of outrage.

She received the opposite.

The King sat, unmoving and silent, for a long while. Finally, he leaned close and spoke with a voice more authoritative and stern than she’d heard him use in months.

“My beloved but impetuous sister-daughter, was it a black cylinder? About a foot in length?”

“Yes, my Lord. But the white hand...”

Théoden reached for an object on a nearby shelf. As soon as he revealed it, she felt her heart seize, wither, and die.

“Did it look like this?” The white hand on its surface was no more than a pale glimmer in the smoky gloom of the Golden Hall; an absence of light that seemed to be Théoden’s preference in these dark days.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“It is but a message. Despite certain unpleasantries, we are not yet at open war with Isengard, and both sides continue to talk in the hope of preserving our once-valued alliance. Negotiations have been ongoing for many weeks, for we all hope to avoid unnecessary violence that might bring an unfortunate end to Rohan and all that we hold dear. Gríma himself has been the conduit for these messages. I’m certain that what you found is simply a communication he hasn’t yet had time to show me. He’s very busy, you know, for I demand much from him.”

The lecture continued, but she stopped listening. I failed. All will be lost. Perhaps starting with me.

The final insult was Théoden’s concluding warning: she was not, under the threat of an unnamed sanction (though she was sure it would be severe), to enter Wormtongue’s rooms, nor to spy on his activities, nor to level false accusations against him or any other member of his Council again. She longed to tell him of Wormtongue’s intrusion into her own quarters. But the counselor was right: she couldn’t. For if the King asked what transpired...

After a while her sobbing eased, and she lifted her head and stared out the window at the deepening, threatening grey. A storm was coming. The wind was already rising, and she could hear the commotion of people hurriedly bringing goods and beasts to shelter. The people of Edoras were going about their business, minding only their own. It was a thing she could not do.

The trouble wasn’t that the King was lying, for she was sure that he spoke the truth as he saw it. The problem was that his “truth” was an artificial construct created for him by Wormtongue, who was no doubt pursuing his own devious plans. She was certain that whatever message the hidden cylinder held, it was never meant for Théoden’s eyes. But without surety, she had no way prove his guilt.

Even as the room darkened, the narrowness of her immediate future suddenly became clear. If she had no other acceptable choice — if her only alternatives were submission to Wormtongue’s schemes or a headlong flight into exile — than disobedience was the choice she must make. And I must make it now, before the King tells Wormtongue of my intrusion, and all hope of discovery passes.

Éowyn strapped a knife to her leg, wearing it high enough on her thigh that it was concealed by her tunic. Slinging one of her smaller swords across her back — there’s no hiding that, though the sight of me bearing a sword is common enough that few will take notice — she purposefully marched back towards Wormtongue’s quarters, indifferent to consequence. How could it be worse than what’s in store for me, should he remain free to act as he will? Yesterday was only a preview. Whatever might befall, I have an opportunity to avoid that fate. One last chance to save myself from him.

The lock shattered with a single blow. She flung it into a corner, sending it skidding across the flagstones, and immediately regretted her impulsive violence. Why didn’t I just pick it again? Oh well, now I’m committed. One way or another, this will soon be over. Sliding her sword back into its sheath, she flung the chest open and plunged her hand inside, retrieving the mysterious cylinder.

There has to be a way to open it. Again she prodded, poked, and twisted, but nothing seemed to work. She brought it to her ear and gently shook the contents. There’s definitely something inside. But what? She considered using her knife to pry or cut it open, but there seemed to be no seam or discontinuity to afford purchase. And what might I damage if I did? No, there has to be a way to open it without using force. Something related to the hand, perhaps?

She placed her own directly over the design, though the inlay was small and her hand easily wrapped around the cylinder’s entire circumference. Nothing. She stroked a finger around its outline. Nothing. She tried to match it fingertip to fingertip, but hers were far too large.

Suddenly, she remembered something her brother said. They’d managed to steal a few precious hours alone, sharing tales of the land, of their people, and of battle. In truth, she was most interested in the latter. But along the way, he’d said something that now seemed vital.

“That accursed white hand! It points towards Isengard ... which has, I fear, become an armed fortress harboring great evil, though none can approach closely enough to know for sure, and those that do are never seen again. Yet these endless companies of orcs are coming from somewhere, and we’ve driven them out of most of their usual hiding places in the hills. There’s a foul reek that hangs over that pace, and this wasn’t the case until very recently; a reek and a looming sense of threat, as if some sickness of the mind emanates from Orthanc that turns even the hardiest will away. It is, I guess, some sort of black wizardry. Mark my words: there will be war with Saruman one day. He claims to be our ally, but he cannot be trusted.”

There’d been much more, but at the moment she fixated on the relevant words. A white hand. Pointing...

She clutched the cylinder and looked around, orienting herself. Isengard is ... that way. She aimed the fingers of the hand in that direction, trying to decide if the faint vibration she felt was real or imagined, and pressed her thumb into the center of the inlay. With a soft noise, a previously unseen seam appeared, and as she lowered the cylinder in surprise one end clattered onto the floor.

Well, if there are any to hear the alarm, I’ve definitely sounded it now.

Inside were four small vials of grayish powder, each bearing an even smaller version of the white hand. What could this be? It would be the height of folly to test it on myself, but to whom could I bring it for answers? There’s no one in Rohan with an alchemist’s skill; we’re warriors and craftsmen, not mystics. Her momentary surge of hope again grew slender, and she peered into the depths of the cylinder, looking for an answer she didn’t expect to find. But then...

There’s a slip of parchment inside! She withdrew it and unrolled the delicate material, staring at a page filled with words and symbols she couldn’t read. Her education was more extensive than many in her land, and sufficed to tell her that they were Elven runes, but the language was thoroughly unfamiliar. Not that I know more than a common greeting or two in any Elven tongue. Anyway, I think I’ll need to decipher this myself, somehow. I don’t know if I can trust anyone else with this secret, and Wormtongue has too many ears among our people. She tucked one of the vials into a hidden pocket, then carefully wrapped the parchment around her knife, slipping it back into its scabbard. Retrieving the fallen end, she resealed the cylinder, put it back where she’d found it, and closed the chest. Now I really regret breaking the lock. Well, perhaps I’ll have some answers by the time he discovers the damage.

“Lady Éowyn, my impetuous and disobedient vixen, I do hope you intend to compensate me for that lock.”

The unsheathing of her sword was an invisible kinetic blur that ended with its point indenting his vulnerable neck. He jerked backward in fright, but moments later his back was to the wall with no apparent change in the sword’s pressure. There was nowhere to go. Not that I have much hope of escaping her blade should she decide to use it. He steeled himself as best he could; sudden violence was a probability he’d foreseen, though it didn’t make the threat any less imminent. No, I’ll have to make my escape via a different road.

“How long have you been here?” she hissed. “And how did you enter so silently?”

He tried to chuckle, but the sharp point of her sword still pressed against his throat. “My Lady, the answer to your first question is that I appeared just as you see me now. As for the other, may a respected counselor not have his secrets?” His eyes drifted downward, then returned to meet hers. “Don’t we all have secrets?”

“Here’s something that’s no longer a secret: you will die, Worm.” If there was any hesitation in her promise, he couldn’t hear it.

“Yes? And what then, love? Even if my blood doesn’t drip from your sword, when the King’s counselor is found dead upon who will the suspicion fall? She who spreads unkind epithets amongst the people? She who breaks into my quarters, is expressly forbidden by the King himself to ever do so again, and then defies him immediately thereafter? How quickly can you run? And where in this perilous world would you go, my love?”

“Stop calling me that, snake!” Beneath the cover of her bluster, she realized the hard truth in his words. Though she most certainly wished him dead, and dispatching him in a painful and bloody fashion would be momentarily satisfying, his death would eventually be blamed on her. Her sentence might not be imprisonment, nor even exile, but might be her own death ... for betrayal was treated harshly in times of war. If she escaped or fled, she’d be hunted and hated by her people, forever loathed as a traitor to her position, her country, and her own family. She would never see Théoden again. Nor even dear Éomer, who — despite his own abhorrence of Wormtongue — would never countenance the dishonor to their family.

I can’t kill him. I have to destroy him another way, and for that I need more time. Her sword wavered, the tip now digging into his chest. He risked a parry.

“Lady Éowyn, lower your blade. Despite your threats, despite your...” he gestured at his damaged chest “ ... unkindness to my property, despite your apparently insatiable yet pointless curiosity regarding my secrets, I don’t threaten you in turn. I merely foretell. And I’ve told you: I wish to help you.”

“Another lie.” The sword dipped another few inches.

“A simple statement of intent. For, Lady Éowyn, I think if you look with clearer and more dispassionate eyes at the situation you now find yourself in, I’m the only one who can help you.”

“You? From you issues naught but ruin and despair!” The blade fell to her side. “And here I stand on the very edge of ruin myself. Your foul taint bleeds everywhere.”

He leaned forward, but he’d misjudged the moment and it was too soon to begin an approach. Whip-fast reflexes snapped her blade back to attention, this time aiming at a most sensitive target considerably lower on his frame. “Wormtongue, I may lose everything if I kill you, but so will you. Don’t you value your life?”

“Most assuredly. Perhaps more than most. But there exists another path, for both of us.”

“More words? More manipulation? I’ll sever your tongue before I let that happen again.”

“No tricks, my Lady. If you wish to keep these events between us, then make this promise: I will speak, you will listen, and when I’m done you will decide what to do with no interference from me. But I won’t offer this help under threat. I don’t, even now, wish to reveal your crimes to the King ... though what may happen in my despite is beyond my control ... but instead retain an earnest hope that you’ll see the wisdom of what I’m about to say. First, though...” He gestured. “Would you please put that prod away?”

She stared, eyes narrow and suspicious, for a long while. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, she slid the sword back into its protective scabbard. Her barely restrained fury sill burned, but she would listen. However at the first sign of a trick...